“dreams that are not mine” Loud bridges crossed These waters that were set on fire Wheels driven off Course left with Dead horses Each ride carried expired dreams Arriving at the same time Of common grief Of this fire Burning rubber tied to streets Made to break spirits Let souls die all while the Sun turns its eyes to be brought To principles that were not Of heaven or mine I left the crying out of silence on Bridges that yelled What were dreams for If they were not mine “John’s silence” John did not say much and I do not think It’s because of the conditions that brought him here But that he had conditions on what he would say to anyone Painting broad horizons with ease and focus of his eyes Examining each movement that passed him by Dedicated to the exit and the clock, his mind was somewhere his body did not want and his mind agreed on this reasoning Groups were more like quiet time at a day care When his turn came round He would not even try to utter a response Yet he was paying attention the whole time He would just look off into the ways in which we All would sit in a herd with horror filled minds With excess spit from the medications side effects Always rubbing his hands against his legs I thought with enough friction he might start a fire And burn them off and be better off One day he sat by me and opened his mind In physical recognition then asked why I spoke Up so much in group they do nothing he said I said because I have nothing to say actually We both laughed and I felt his soul echo back at me Until his silence called him to come along he got up And touched my hand and lit it on fire With the friction of his words only spoken to a few “wishful winds of a sparrow” Around days where if being human fits It would fail leaving a state seemingly like anything but dry leaves Where any friction can set it into flames Wanting to be bagged up and tamed so full of shame Hard to contain its lifeless form only moving when The wind forcefully moves it along with time Crumbled by lawnmowers who needs rakes Felt in the tips of fallen branches Visible like the sores in the mouth wide opened Struck like a spot on the clock the hours Have forgotten about life that was once there Fresh in spring and drenching with sweat in the summer blaze On trees hung strong for years, decades, even centuries But not the leaves they resemble the low tides in the off season of oceans with waves toasting to match the skies with The wind questioning the sparrow’s intent and direction with time ill spent The wind wonders where and when will the sparrow get the weathers hint The seasons are changing off on a limb a sparrow lifts its chin To the wind and resides where it began as an egg In hopes of seeing its mother again As leaves drift from branches and fall to the ground like ashes the sparrow loses its home along with anything that it can hold “burnt out spots in a confused mind” Bringing down thoughtful riots that are muted on occasion Their intentions are to destroy these mental pearls revolting inside of me Burn this rebellion in the essences of my being down In need of more assessment They gather around me like a pack of wolves one by one Observing me like the next meal To them either way I was a meal ticket No different than the fees earned for every head counted in the jails at night Lazy with one of my eyes Fighting constant injections round the clock filled with their legal dope Maybe with my sedation they can find an answer to my equation Locked in a rhythm less thought process My jar is dropped, with a mouth full of liquid from my body Falling onto a pool that looks like my chest is Unable to get up dropped on the ground layered with patients before me stories my mind swung into a direction That failed to mention that as young as I am I would be better off with dementia as a diagnosis For I do not even remember the hours I had before Realizing again I was in the same place Before all this occurred Begging to exist beyond these walls Fighting for better days I lay in horrid nights With the sounds of broken arrows aimed at my heart stumbles mid air and falls apart to a harden ground in the nurse’s and doctor’s chart but I am still caged here Still Marked as another target, my bed remains a coffin for any thoughts once flowing I was alive only to breathe their medically induced air “give in or let go” Rather than coming too soon
He laid late and stubborn stuck at noon Staying in blasted peace Should have given in or finally let go Children yelled for the revolution Adults cried for their future While the aftermath rested In graves of deserted evolutions Cushions that held borrowed bodies Used as toy soldiers in wars No one could find a use for He broke me, left me Flying below whatever I was above The love left in a stove Past dinner time where it remained Burnt by his stubbornness Questioning whether to give in or let go
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CLOSERJuneWe always take the furthest spot, eager to walk the flat expanse of Sloan Kettering’s parking lot. On occasion he smiles in these first days swollen with hope, late June sunshine on his shoulders, the Dogwood just in bloom browning white petals kiss pavement. AugustHot, he waves a limp wrist motioning me to park nearer. The tree is laden with green leaves now, people walk, wipe sweat from eyes. His clammy hand clenches the bag he still carries relentless Jersey humidity further stifles his breath . NovemberIt spread hip, kidney, bone. The cane hobbles him from car to front door where a lobby is filled with mums and pumpkins. His wool cap fits loosely now, his face still beautiful- chiseled, sunken. His sweater slips off his back, a skinny boy in daddy’s clothes. FebruaryThe wheels on his chair thin, snow deep. His final infusion - a mere crucifixion, we are met by his Simon of Cyrene, sipping coffee, laughing with security as I recline the seat and writhe him out of our car like burnt bread, fallen too deep into the toaster. LAST FIRST NIGHTI pose we smoke (the pleasure we can still partake in) but 7 becomes 8 8 becomes 9 and you are still on the other side of the locked door, ursus in hibernation. So I mark time mull red wine with cardamom and lemon peel pour the spirit into porcelain teacups and pass to my teenage children late popsicles on a summer night. At 11:55 you appear your once strong body fading with the year you hobble a few steps in striped pajamas that Jew from Treblinka watching Anderson Cooper. I graze your shoulder, strands of your silver hair- too weak to inhale you peck me instead with chapped lips as your last year begins. FINAL EDIT |
 | William Ruleman retired last year from college teaching to devote himself to writing, painting, translation, and (when possible) travel. His newest book is Black Forest Poems, and individual poems of his have appeared most recently in The Amethyst Review, Mused: The BellaOnline Literary Review, NatureWriting, The Pangolin Review, and Words for the Wild. More can be found out about him at www.williamruleman.com. |
APPLE TREES IN AUTUMN, BREITENBERG
AUTUMN NEAR BREITENBERG
THE INVITATION
Once more, I find I long to wander, free
From all the strife that plagues my native land:
The bitter bickering on every hand,
The snares that will not let a body be.
There are forests I still long to see
And where I would not have to take a stand
On some "hot" issue I find trite and bland.
I wish the world would stay away from me.
But Earth replies: "I'm waiting for you, child.
All you ever sought in life is here,
But you must leave the wicked World behind
And live with me in nature, weird and wild,
Free from cities and their hate and fear,
Once more to find serenity of mind.”
From all the strife that plagues my native land:
The bitter bickering on every hand,
The snares that will not let a body be.
There are forests I still long to see
And where I would not have to take a stand
On some "hot" issue I find trite and bland.
I wish the world would stay away from me.
But Earth replies: "I'm waiting for you, child.
All you ever sought in life is here,
But you must leave the wicked World behind
And live with me in nature, weird and wild,
Free from cities and their hate and fear,
Once more to find serenity of mind.”
IN WHAT OTHERWISE WOULD BE EDEN,
HE LONGS FOR HIS LOVE,
WITH AUTUMN NEAR
(Breitenberg, Germany, 17 September 2010)
Outside my bedroom window—there
In chill and certain autumn air--
The apple tree is all aglow,
And here I could be frothy, froh
If not for sobering things I know.
For solemn thoughts at moments shroud
My joy in puffs of gloomy cloud
Against the blue (I'm wistfully blue,
For blue, my love, your favorite hue,
Sends my thoughts again toward you.)
Outside my bedroom window—there
In chill and certain autumn air--
The apple tree is all aglow,
And here I could be frothy, froh
If not for sobering things I know.
For solemn thoughts at moments shroud
My joy in puffs of gloomy cloud
Against the blue (I'm wistfully blue,
For blue, my love, your favorite hue,
Sends my thoughts again toward you.)
THE RIDE FROM BAD WILDBAD TO BIETIGHEIM
(September 2010)
to my love
The sky was blue that day; the air was chill.
Walter parked the car at Wildbad so that we
Could take our bikes to see what we could see,
Negotiating every turn and hill
Through woods and villages, past farm and field
Along the river Enz to Bietigheim,
Although we stopped and spent a little time
At a roadside inn whose looking-glass revealed
That I had cut my head and left a gash
When I had gathered speed going down a slope,
Too heady in my aging fellow’s hope
Of recapturing youth to see that I would crash.
The whole world glided past our bikes that day.
How many times I longed to stop and rest!
And most of all, I think of that glad fest
We passed in a dream, it seemed, along the way
And where—in the midst of children, dogs, and men--
Beside the river on the village green
Appeared the loveliest girl I’d ever seen,
And all the more enchanting to me then
While I was lost in longing thoughts of you,
That day two lonely men became old friends
Riding bikes along the River Enz:
A day of timbered towns unreal but true
That took me back into an ideal time
Far from my own . . . Or might it just be so
That my own spirit lived so long ago
And for that reason pens this simple rhyme?
Other memories of that day return,
But this goddess with her copper hair
And flowing arms shines brightest there
Amid that festive scene for which I yearn.
With time the memory has only grown.
The tents and banners of that merry scene
Beside the river on the village green
Comfort me when I feel sad, alone.
For it was a vision, I will dare to say,
Of centuries past but also those to come:
Eternal bliss in that eternal home,
That paradise for which I sometimes pray.
to my love
The sky was blue that day; the air was chill.
Walter parked the car at Wildbad so that we
Could take our bikes to see what we could see,
Negotiating every turn and hill
Through woods and villages, past farm and field
Along the river Enz to Bietigheim,
Although we stopped and spent a little time
At a roadside inn whose looking-glass revealed
That I had cut my head and left a gash
When I had gathered speed going down a slope,
Too heady in my aging fellow’s hope
Of recapturing youth to see that I would crash.
The whole world glided past our bikes that day.
How many times I longed to stop and rest!
And most of all, I think of that glad fest
We passed in a dream, it seemed, along the way
And where—in the midst of children, dogs, and men--
Beside the river on the village green
Appeared the loveliest girl I’d ever seen,
And all the more enchanting to me then
While I was lost in longing thoughts of you,
That day two lonely men became old friends
Riding bikes along the River Enz:
A day of timbered towns unreal but true
That took me back into an ideal time
Far from my own . . . Or might it just be so
That my own spirit lived so long ago
And for that reason pens this simple rhyme?
Other memories of that day return,
But this goddess with her copper hair
And flowing arms shines brightest there
Amid that festive scene for which I yearn.
With time the memory has only grown.
The tents and banners of that merry scene
Beside the river on the village green
Comfort me when I feel sad, alone.
For it was a vision, I will dare to say,
Of centuries past but also those to come:
Eternal bliss in that eternal home,
That paradise for which I sometimes pray.
 | David McLintock lives in the North-West of England. He has published poetry intermittently since the early 1990s, in small-press and online. His life is based on notebooks, lists, and peculiar encounters with people. He believes you can make poetry out of the mundane trash of the city. He likes making words do things they weren't invented for. |
The Man Who Got One
I had this friend
Who admitted to me once
That when he was a child
He’d been fascinated by life
And that now he’d grown up into a man
This fascination hadn’t gone away
And that whatever it took
He was determined
To get one for himself.
I was staggered,
He didn’t seem the type,
But despite my protests
From then on
He spent the better part of each day
Devoted to this task,
However detrimental it was
To anything else.
A few years later,
Having drifted apart
Some while before,
Him not having the time
For the things he’d used to,
Me not caring to push it any longer,
I was surprised to get a call,
And to hear his urgent voice on the other end
Telling me to come over,
Cos he’d got one.
I asked where he lived now,
Not expecting him to answer
That he was still in the same place,
But I put my coat and boots on
And made my way across town
Wondering if the area
Had improved without me knowing.
If anything, it was worse.
I found his house
And it looked a bit rundown,
The garden was a bit weedy if anything.
The car on the drive didn't look that much either.
In fact, it took nothing to notice the rear-left wheel was off it.
He answered the doorbell quickly, smiling.
Inside was as I remembered it
Only 10 years older.
But he seemed really happy,
And started showing me round,
Pointing out things that really weren't worth pointing out.
I wondered whether he had been ill, to be honest.
It turned out he was single, too.
“What do you think of that?"
He finally said, waving his arms
Like some kind of evangelist.
“Isn’t it fantastic?”
I looked around, I didn’t know what he was on about,
And finally I told him,
“What? I can’t see anything?”
He paused, looked at me, puzzled,
Asked if I was sure.
I said I was.
He looked at me again, sadly I thought.
“It’s so strange,” he said.
“All of you say the same.”
As I walked back across town
I kicked some stones down the road
And found myself crying a little bit,
To do this day I don't know why.
Who admitted to me once
That when he was a child
He’d been fascinated by life
And that now he’d grown up into a man
This fascination hadn’t gone away
And that whatever it took
He was determined
To get one for himself.
I was staggered,
He didn’t seem the type,
But despite my protests
From then on
He spent the better part of each day
Devoted to this task,
However detrimental it was
To anything else.
A few years later,
Having drifted apart
Some while before,
Him not having the time
For the things he’d used to,
Me not caring to push it any longer,
I was surprised to get a call,
And to hear his urgent voice on the other end
Telling me to come over,
Cos he’d got one.
I asked where he lived now,
Not expecting him to answer
That he was still in the same place,
But I put my coat and boots on
And made my way across town
Wondering if the area
Had improved without me knowing.
If anything, it was worse.
I found his house
And it looked a bit rundown,
The garden was a bit weedy if anything.
The car on the drive didn't look that much either.
In fact, it took nothing to notice the rear-left wheel was off it.
He answered the doorbell quickly, smiling.
Inside was as I remembered it
Only 10 years older.
But he seemed really happy,
And started showing me round,
Pointing out things that really weren't worth pointing out.
I wondered whether he had been ill, to be honest.
It turned out he was single, too.
“What do you think of that?"
He finally said, waving his arms
Like some kind of evangelist.
“Isn’t it fantastic?”
I looked around, I didn’t know what he was on about,
And finally I told him,
“What? I can’t see anything?”
He paused, looked at me, puzzled,
Asked if I was sure.
I said I was.
He looked at me again, sadly I thought.
“It’s so strange,” he said.
“All of you say the same.”
As I walked back across town
I kicked some stones down the road
And found myself crying a little bit,
To do this day I don't know why.
I multiplied together 2 nine-digit numbers …
I multiplied together 2 nine-digit numbers.
No-one wondered how I did it,
No-one wanted to check my answer.
A computer programmer,
A social worker,
An international shipping merchant,
A translator,
And an English teacher.
And not one of them was at all impressed.
The computer programmer asked:
“Why?”
I looked at him as if he was the strange one.
“Because I can” I answered,
And repeated it 9 times, quietly.
No-one wondered how I did it,
No-one wanted to check my answer.
A computer programmer,
A social worker,
An international shipping merchant,
A translator,
And an English teacher.
And not one of them was at all impressed.
The computer programmer asked:
“Why?”
I looked at him as if he was the strange one.
“Because I can” I answered,
And repeated it 9 times, quietly.
The Prettiest Girl Who Ever Saw Time
The prettiest girl
Who ever saw time
Knocked around up on the river
Next to my old father’s place,
And he wooed her with his boat,
And wondered at her,
Her line lolling in the water,
Her hair,
Her bare toes paddling,
Idle as a child,
And the only thing she caught
Was him,
And he had nothing to give her
But his failings and himself,
His cabin with the door
And meshed windows,
His rattly truck that barely
Beat the ruts,
And she left,
But then came briefly back
To give him me,
Which he took, unwillingly,
And lived with a look
Out of his eyes
For the moment
I too would leave,
As if he could will it,
Till I did,
Which maybe is a day
He has not forgotten,
Or he may have, or he may
Not be there anymore,
Or he may have a look
Out of his eyes
Totally absented
From all of his past,
Something akin to wonder,
Or akin to something
He knows he never
Quite saw,
Something like a boat,
Something like a river,
Something like a woman,
Something like a child.
Who ever saw time
Knocked around up on the river
Next to my old father’s place,
And he wooed her with his boat,
And wondered at her,
Her line lolling in the water,
Her hair,
Her bare toes paddling,
Idle as a child,
And the only thing she caught
Was him,
And he had nothing to give her
But his failings and himself,
His cabin with the door
And meshed windows,
His rattly truck that barely
Beat the ruts,
And she left,
But then came briefly back
To give him me,
Which he took, unwillingly,
And lived with a look
Out of his eyes
For the moment
I too would leave,
As if he could will it,
Till I did,
Which maybe is a day
He has not forgotten,
Or he may have, or he may
Not be there anymore,
Or he may have a look
Out of his eyes
Totally absented
From all of his past,
Something akin to wonder,
Or akin to something
He knows he never
Quite saw,
Something like a boat,
Something like a river,
Something like a woman,
Something like a child.
The poet has nowhere to hide …
The poet has nowhere to hide,
Has nowhere to rest, nurse hate,
Rock forth, nowhere dried,
Packed, ready-sealed, to elate
In opening late, versing
As key goes in door, wallet
To floor, assured cursing -
As muse of nicht pour gullet -
Will not go between his mantra
Of world-love, all-love, and lord-love:
His larder's stocked, true tantra -
Approving spice, seed, and stove.
I pity my restful foe,
His non-gnomic con-me's, his lasty
Resistant eyes, his all-know
All-gone, his hair hashy,
His fear, overbearing as was,
Now sub-Socratic, bleakered,
Barely worth tongue, fosse
Frazzed; a harlequin sneakered,
Smashed on a sprung-through sofa,
Gouting largesse, loud-wording
Gauds, bits of him a knifer
Still, most an idiocy boarding.
Not for I must I pity,
Nor for I can, but for the joy,
For the mockery, treachery, for the smarty
Gleam, the sheerness, for the coy
Sly slippery side
Of self undoing all good,
Knuckling well back at pride,
Handily gainsaying that prude,
Slapping that Lancelot's back,
Burping that sucker, unshucking
That constabularying schmuck,
Offing that cuckooing, that clucking.
For there are things must be done
And them I shall do. No
Small poet frying his pan
Of lines need I now
To go for feeding from to.
I have my own bubbling.
Some boil gloop, some glue.
I've no trouble dribbling.
I sooner spend my turbulent
Roubles quibbling info
Ilka, who's noo Boss Rant?
Than grinder cuisinist curio.
Once I saw him in his pots,
Underneath the worktop,
Clawing at them, clats
And slams, all tempered, lop
To his eyes. When he looked
Up, at me laughing down,
His cheeks tightly in-sucked,
Hollowing strangely, a frown
Drew across his brow,
In three deep waved lines,
He formed a smile, then a low
Sound, a haiku of bent fork-tine.
Summitted gutturally,
Forcibly, ignobly, with
Malice contemporaneously
Sniggered, up at my standing life,
It was as if he and I was one
And he knew it first, and knowing first,
Threw me off my track, and won,
Left me tired, racked with thirst,
Raising my fist at him heading
Ahead to a storming victory
Taking with him my due rewarding
And with that everything left of me.
Has nowhere to rest, nurse hate,
Rock forth, nowhere dried,
Packed, ready-sealed, to elate
In opening late, versing
As key goes in door, wallet
To floor, assured cursing -
As muse of nicht pour gullet -
Will not go between his mantra
Of world-love, all-love, and lord-love:
His larder's stocked, true tantra -
Approving spice, seed, and stove.
I pity my restful foe,
His non-gnomic con-me's, his lasty
Resistant eyes, his all-know
All-gone, his hair hashy,
His fear, overbearing as was,
Now sub-Socratic, bleakered,
Barely worth tongue, fosse
Frazzed; a harlequin sneakered,
Smashed on a sprung-through sofa,
Gouting largesse, loud-wording
Gauds, bits of him a knifer
Still, most an idiocy boarding.
Not for I must I pity,
Nor for I can, but for the joy,
For the mockery, treachery, for the smarty
Gleam, the sheerness, for the coy
Sly slippery side
Of self undoing all good,
Knuckling well back at pride,
Handily gainsaying that prude,
Slapping that Lancelot's back,
Burping that sucker, unshucking
That constabularying schmuck,
Offing that cuckooing, that clucking.
For there are things must be done
And them I shall do. No
Small poet frying his pan
Of lines need I now
To go for feeding from to.
I have my own bubbling.
Some boil gloop, some glue.
I've no trouble dribbling.
I sooner spend my turbulent
Roubles quibbling info
Ilka, who's noo Boss Rant?
Than grinder cuisinist curio.
Once I saw him in his pots,
Underneath the worktop,
Clawing at them, clats
And slams, all tempered, lop
To his eyes. When he looked
Up, at me laughing down,
His cheeks tightly in-sucked,
Hollowing strangely, a frown
Drew across his brow,
In three deep waved lines,
He formed a smile, then a low
Sound, a haiku of bent fork-tine.
Summitted gutturally,
Forcibly, ignobly, with
Malice contemporaneously
Sniggered, up at my standing life,
It was as if he and I was one
And he knew it first, and knowing first,
Threw me off my track, and won,
Left me tired, racked with thirst,
Raising my fist at him heading
Ahead to a storming victory
Taking with him my due rewarding
And with that everything left of me.
I'd rolled a cigarette ...
I'd rolled a cigarette and stowed the baccy
pouch and rizlas safely down in a pocket
and rummaged through several other pockets until
I'd found my lighter tangled in my hankie
and unwrapped it and stepped outside the pub
to light one up. The rain had stopped, its wetness
still glinted off the pavement. Flash red fuchsia
heads fallen from the hanging pots
on the pub wall lay wet and squashed on the kerb,
floated round an algae-scummed puddle
teetering to the mouth of a roadside drain.
I stared at them as I inhaled. I paced
idly back and forth along the pavement,
never venturing too far from the pub front,
as if, to move too far might invoke banishment,
or as if, someone might come and take
my place, and in taking my place, might take me.
Shepherd's purse sprouted from cracks along the road,
across the pavement, little white flowers content
with any space they could find. I puckered my cheeks
to take in a lungful of smoke, and was content.
From a carpark across the road, a pair of 4
by 4s followed each other out, growling.
I noticed the mud-spatters up the sides of each,
and wondered how many walkers they'd taken out.
A cyclist came along on the pavement, wrapped
in waterproofs, and as he passed he waved,
because we knew each other some years ago.
I held my cigarette up waving back,
but he'd already cycled down the street
and around the corner. I really should be getting
around the corner too, I thought, considering
the time, and how the shops would soon shut
and I'd nothing in my cupboards. I finished my smoke,
and stubbed the butt on the pavement under my heel,
just next to a particularly blood-red fuchsia
flower. Then I went back into the pub.
pouch and rizlas safely down in a pocket
and rummaged through several other pockets until
I'd found my lighter tangled in my hankie
and unwrapped it and stepped outside the pub
to light one up. The rain had stopped, its wetness
still glinted off the pavement. Flash red fuchsia
heads fallen from the hanging pots
on the pub wall lay wet and squashed on the kerb,
floated round an algae-scummed puddle
teetering to the mouth of a roadside drain.
I stared at them as I inhaled. I paced
idly back and forth along the pavement,
never venturing too far from the pub front,
as if, to move too far might invoke banishment,
or as if, someone might come and take
my place, and in taking my place, might take me.
Shepherd's purse sprouted from cracks along the road,
across the pavement, little white flowers content
with any space they could find. I puckered my cheeks
to take in a lungful of smoke, and was content.
From a carpark across the road, a pair of 4
by 4s followed each other out, growling.
I noticed the mud-spatters up the sides of each,
and wondered how many walkers they'd taken out.
A cyclist came along on the pavement, wrapped
in waterproofs, and as he passed he waved,
because we knew each other some years ago.
I held my cigarette up waving back,
but he'd already cycled down the street
and around the corner. I really should be getting
around the corner too, I thought, considering
the time, and how the shops would soon shut
and I'd nothing in my cupboards. I finished my smoke,
and stubbed the butt on the pavement under my heel,
just next to a particularly blood-red fuchsia
flower. Then I went back into the pub.
 | Kyle Brandon Lee is a Texas born writer of poetry, prose and plays. He's published at Mirror Dance, Furtive Dalliance and Soft Cartel. If someday they open an old and dusty tome made of pecan bark and armadillo hide, perhaps they'll find is work within. Hopefully, it will be plentiful. |
Cry the Engineer
The lowly engineer admired the fine oak
through the bottom of his glass.
“Well built,” he thought, well inspected.
Someone listened somewhere.
through the bottom of his glass.
“Well built,” he thought, well inspected.
Someone listened somewhere.
The snow made visibility nil.
But the engineer trusted in the system.
The tracks remained clear,
even if the skies had not.
But the engineer trusted in the system.
The tracks remained clear,
even if the skies had not.
Nor gray nor green, he knew his work
but still others loomed above him.
He knew structure and mass
both from schooling and politic.
but still others loomed above him.
He knew structure and mass
both from schooling and politic.
Three hours from Denver if the delay held
but he knew the bridges and turns.
He knew what the snow and ice brought
and the weight of getting to the station safe.
but he knew the bridges and turns.
He knew what the snow and ice brought
and the weight of getting to the station safe.
Some engineers were just set in their ways
and no matter the gravity of the situation,
nothing could persuade save a higher price
that no oversight could track.
and no matter the gravity of the situation,
nothing could persuade save a higher price
that no oversight could track.
The engine and its line rounded the corner,
speed high but safe to move through the storm.
But then the engineer saw what waited,
a bridge mangled, angled into the abyss.
speed high but safe to move through the storm.
But then the engineer saw what waited,
a bridge mangled, angled into the abyss.
The bridge was old he said, in dire need of repair.
The next winter should be its last.
But they pushed him aside, satisfied that what worked before
would work on. Oh what great engineering!
The next winter should be its last.
But they pushed him aside, satisfied that what worked before
would work on. Oh what great engineering!
No engineering could slow them down in time.
Nothing short of a miracle would bring a stop.
But he tried, oh how he tried.
Profanity and prayers, cried the engineer.
Nothing short of a miracle would bring a stop.
But he tried, oh how he tried.
Profanity and prayers, cried the engineer.
The radio reported of the missing train,
now late running from Denver.
Heads would roll in the coming days.
There was nothing he could do. So cried the engineer.
now late running from Denver.
Heads would roll in the coming days.
There was nothing he could do. So cried the engineer.
Sonnet #3 – Even as She Sleeps
Even as she sleeps, she’ll reach for my hand,
land and space between us makes no matter.
Shatter any expectations of
love taking a second chair to all others.
Brothers! Sisters! Learn this lesson captured.
Enraptured I find myself, this flower.
Cower? I dare not, for I must behold,
told before by lovers past, loss – risk not!
Blot out worry of an unworthy self.
Wealth is measured not in image or fame.
Tame? Not her want for closeness nor passion.
Fashion me a love stronger than her heart.
Art and song may fill her dreams but its I,
high above, she’s chosen to believe in.
land and space between us makes no matter.
Shatter any expectations of
love taking a second chair to all others.
Brothers! Sisters! Learn this lesson captured.
Enraptured I find myself, this flower.
Cower? I dare not, for I must behold,
told before by lovers past, loss – risk not!
Blot out worry of an unworthy self.
Wealth is measured not in image or fame.
Tame? Not her want for closeness nor passion.
Fashion me a love stronger than her heart.
Art and song may fill her dreams but its I,
high above, she’s chosen to believe in.
Orange in a House of Lions
His calloused hands turned the earth
undaunted
as the heinous sun oft beat upon him
uncaring
The lion toiled
untroubled
unwanting
An orange fruit he’d take home
unquestioned
for his loving pride oft sat beside him
unending
The lion lived
untroubled
unwanting
For WHL
undaunted
as the heinous sun oft beat upon him
uncaring
The lion toiled
untroubled
unwanting
An orange fruit he’d take home
unquestioned
for his loving pride oft sat beside him
unending
The lion lived
untroubled
unwanting
For WHL
Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.
Enigma
Cliche: ‘light at the end of the tunnel’
forgets to mentions a possible
oncoming train; tunnels, illuminated
by artificial bulbs, are beneath the
surface. Energy powers our control
over darkness. Can we switch tracks
so imminent disaster is avoided?
Can a back-up generator keep
underground passages lit?
Might I direct what light
filters in, and what
darkness to accept?
forgets to mentions a possible
oncoming train; tunnels, illuminated
by artificial bulbs, are beneath the
surface. Energy powers our control
over darkness. Can we switch tracks
so imminent disaster is avoided?
Can a back-up generator keep
underground passages lit?
Might I direct what light
filters in, and what
darkness to accept?
my country 'tis of thee
Sterile formulas, vaccinations,
Moments with mumps, measles.
Fiery throat from tonsils
Too terrible to keep.
Eye exams, hearing tests,
Braces on teeth, broken
Nose nursed to new.
Quiet talks, tempers tingling,
Nightmares, pleasures,
Explored, spoken, soothed.
Love directed to help
Cope with a future
He never saw.
©1991 Green's Educational Publication (Canada)
reprinted spring 2010 “Shemom”
Moments with mumps, measles.
Fiery throat from tonsils
Too terrible to keep.
Eye exams, hearing tests,
Braces on teeth, broken
Nose nursed to new.
Quiet talks, tempers tingling,
Nightmares, pleasures,
Explored, spoken, soothed.
Love directed to help
Cope with a future
He never saw.
©1991 Green's Educational Publication (Canada)
reprinted spring 2010 “Shemom”
Uninvited Guest
I came to visit
Though I had no place
To sit while I
Spoke to you.
I was quite alone
Yet talked in
Whispers.
Feeling self-conscious
I selected a smooth
Pebble and placed it on
Polished granite.
Will the birds
Notice you had
A caller?
©1977 The Writer
reprinted Winter 2015 Shemom
Though I had no place
To sit while I
Spoke to you.
I was quite alone
Yet talked in
Whispers.
Feeling self-conscious
I selected a smooth
Pebble and placed it on
Polished granite.
Will the birds
Notice you had
A caller?
©1977 The Writer
reprinted Winter 2015 Shemom
Government Health Care
Medicines can't slow
ills which were
destined at union
to occur.
Skills and mind won't heal
destruction which Nature
temporarily conceals.
Will maintaining me
be the 'cure' to cling
to until I cease?
© 1990 Green's Educational Publication (Canada)
ills which were
destined at union
to occur.
Skills and mind won't heal
destruction which Nature
temporarily conceals.
Will maintaining me
be the 'cure' to cling
to until I cease?
© 1990 Green's Educational Publication (Canada)
painful phrase
Studying my face
the young photographer
noted contours of lips
and eyes. Exacting a
pose, he positioned
lights, scanned jowls,
furrows. As the
shutter snapped, he
innocently stated,
“I’ll bet you were
pretty
once”
©2001 Green’s Educational Pub. (Canada)
 | Carl Scharwath, has appeared globally with 150+ journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, drama or art photography.Two poetry books 'Journey To Become Forgotten' (Kind of a Hurricane Press).and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv) have been published. Carl is the art editor for Minute Magazine, a dedicated runner and 2nd degree black- belt in Taekwondo. |
ASH WEDNESDAY IN DRESDEN (Aschermittwoch in Dresden)
Mosquito marker planes dropped
red and green imprints.
The Florence of the Elbe
awaited its charcoal nightmare.
Sirens proclaimed a terror, embraced
by formations of flying steel.
The first incendiary firestorm
rained seismic waves of heat.
Body parts and liquid flesh
christened the sidewalks in drips.
Like a grotesque summer
melting ice cream cone.
Trampled, no oxygen
a death dance in the street.
The dance floor reflected
adults the size of children.
Burnt, screaming and gesticulated
in a mad frenzy to escape.
The cultural city morphed into
an aberrant, surrealistic landscape.
A German mother covered her babies
with kisses and wet blankets
and whispered silent prayers
on a Dresden Ash Wednesday evening.
red and green imprints.
The Florence of the Elbe
awaited its charcoal nightmare.
Sirens proclaimed a terror, embraced
by formations of flying steel.
The first incendiary firestorm
rained seismic waves of heat.
Body parts and liquid flesh
christened the sidewalks in drips.
Like a grotesque summer
melting ice cream cone.
Trampled, no oxygen
a death dance in the street.
The dance floor reflected
adults the size of children.
Burnt, screaming and gesticulated
in a mad frenzy to escape.
The cultural city morphed into
an aberrant, surrealistic landscape.
A German mother covered her babies
with kisses and wet blankets
and whispered silent prayers
on a Dresden Ash Wednesday evening.
An American City
The city slowly
withers and dies.
While the living
flow angry
in open streets.
To a new renaissance.
floating down the river
like a colorful leaf
on splattered sunshine.
withers and dies.
While the living
flow angry
in open streets.
To a new renaissance.
floating down the river
like a colorful leaf
on splattered sunshine.
 | Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Plainsongs, The Long Islander, and The Nashwaak Review. Her newest poetry collections are In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (Cyberwit.net), Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), and Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press) . |
The Night Out
on our knees we
drag the rope
make a circle
to keep the snakes out. stake down the tent
roll out the sleeping bags, set
the camp stove
on low, make soup.
the children’s eyes glow
in the dying
light of the setting sun, cheeks
pink with anticipation
of sleeping under the stars. moonlight
makes the shadows creep
far across the desert and up into
the hills.
I nestle
my head against
my husband’s chest and dream.
drag the rope
make a circle
to keep the snakes out. stake down the tent
roll out the sleeping bags, set
the camp stove
on low, make soup.
the children’s eyes glow
in the dying
light of the setting sun, cheeks
pink with anticipation
of sleeping under the stars. moonlight
makes the shadows creep
far across the desert and up into
the hills.
I nestle
my head against
my husband’s chest and dream.
The Wife
hand in hand, fingers locked
in a bright show
of marital bliss, smile for
the outside world
to see. no reflection of nightly
rituals of blood
and bone, of skin against metal
the room with a
drain in the floor. her smile is
carefully controlled, quiet
years of hiding
a mouth full of
chipped, dying teeth, lips rouged to hide the hairline
splits in her flesh, the way the
skin puckers
in too many directions
when she tries to speak. he shelters her with
his body in public, banishing questions from
friends and family who ask
why she never calls anymore.
in a bright show
of marital bliss, smile for
the outside world
to see. no reflection of nightly
rituals of blood
and bone, of skin against metal
the room with a
drain in the floor. her smile is
carefully controlled, quiet
years of hiding
a mouth full of
chipped, dying teeth, lips rouged to hide the hairline
splits in her flesh, the way the
skin puckers
in too many directions
when she tries to speak. he shelters her with
his body in public, banishing questions from
friends and family who ask
why she never calls anymore.
The Wooden Man
a man made of wood would be a much more practical being
than a man made of flesh, a man with knotted arms
coarse flesh, rough bark, rooted to the ground
unable to leave. I imagine the women
of those long ago forests carrying
new babies in their arms, determined to forget
who the single sperm on that single night
came from, I see those women
holding their babies up to the best trees
the old, tall ones with birds in their crowns
squirrels in their crooks, rabbits under their roots
saying, “This is your father, ” spinning elaborate
but believable tales of strong, beautiful, dependable dryads
visiting sleeping children during the night, planting
dew-damp and sap-scented kisses on tow-framed foreheads
whispering the secrets of the forest in their tiny
sleeping ears, and how the tree outside your door
is the thing that makes this home.
than a man made of flesh, a man with knotted arms
coarse flesh, rough bark, rooted to the ground
unable to leave. I imagine the women
of those long ago forests carrying
new babies in their arms, determined to forget
who the single sperm on that single night
came from, I see those women
holding their babies up to the best trees
the old, tall ones with birds in their crowns
squirrels in their crooks, rabbits under their roots
saying, “This is your father, ” spinning elaborate
but believable tales of strong, beautiful, dependable dryads
visiting sleeping children during the night, planting
dew-damp and sap-scented kisses on tow-framed foreheads
whispering the secrets of the forest in their tiny
sleeping ears, and how the tree outside your door
is the thing that makes this home.
New Letter
the air is getting dry
there’s no more rain
cigarette smoke
follows me out to the porch.
I miss you, keep waking
to dreams where you
are here but
you don’t want
don’t need me anymore.
I have cats
and kittens
that sleep with me now.
I wish
I could talk
to them like I talk
to you. I have
things waiting
here for you, things
you’d like if you’d
just come home.
I’ll keep them safe.
there’s no more rain
cigarette smoke
follows me out to the porch.
I miss you, keep waking
to dreams where you
are here but
you don’t want
don’t need me anymore.
I have cats
and kittens
that sleep with me now.
I wish
I could talk
to them like I talk
to you. I have
things waiting
here for you, things
you’d like if you’d
just come home.
I’ll keep them safe.
The Ride
I still wave at trains as they rumble by, in lieu
of being on board myself, imagine all of
the places the passengers must be going,
all of the places I could go if I was on the train:
perhaps seated next to some dusty child
a photograph of some far-off relative tucked into
her pocket, or perhaps, more adventurously
a well-dressed spy pretending to sleep, or just
someone going to the store. I still wave at trains
as they rumble by, imagine
it’s my face pressed to the glass, watching
someone just like me.
of being on board myself, imagine all of
the places the passengers must be going,
all of the places I could go if I was on the train:
perhaps seated next to some dusty child
a photograph of some far-off relative tucked into
her pocket, or perhaps, more adventurously
a well-dressed spy pretending to sleep, or just
someone going to the store. I still wave at trains
as they rumble by, imagine
it’s my face pressed to the glass, watching
someone just like me.
Categories
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ABDUL MALIK MANDANI
ABIGAIL GEORGE
CARL SCHARWATH
COLIN STEIN
DAVID MCLINTOCK
EG TED DAVIS
ELIZABETH FLETCHER
ERICA MICHAELS HOLLANDER
GEORGE CASSIDY PAYNE
HIMANSHU RANJAN
HOLLY DAY
HUSAIN ABDULHAY
IAN SINGLETON
JACOB M. APPEL
JEFFREY PENN MAY
JORDAN CORLEY
KEITH BURKHOLDER
KRISTEN FLANNERY
KYLE BRANDON LEE
LOIS GREENE STONE
MARCUS SEVERNS
MARK F. LINDSEY
NDABA SIBANDA
SAHAJ SABHARWAL
STACEY Z LAWRENCE
UZOMAH UGWU
WAYNE J. KEELEY
WILLIAM RULEMAN
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